It was not the same mule, driven by the old Negro who had passed Amelia one morning more than six years before. There were so many mules being driven by so many Negroes up and down the Eastern Shore. This Negro was younger and he could see quite clearly. And what he saw puzzled and disturbed him--a white woman, alone on a side road, carrying a suitcase and giving every sign of being about to ask him for a lift! _Not good._ He sat, a solid cloud of gloom, waiting for her to speak. Amelia smiled. She had to clear her throat. The mule regarded her stolidly. “Boy,” she asked, and the tone of her voice confirmed his worse fears, “are you going into St. Michaels?” “No, _ma’m_. Jus’ up da road a piece, an’ right back. No, ma’m, Ah ain’t goin’ neah St. Michael. No, _ma’m_.” He was too vehement. Amelia saw the confusion in his face and, because she was in the process of acquiring wisdom, she knew the cause. She must think of a way to reassure him. She spoke slowly. “You see, I’m trying to get to St. Michaels. I want to catch a boat.” Amelia saw the man’s eyes flicker. Going somewhere always aroused interest. He shook his head, but did not speak. Amelia looked away. The road seemed to quiver in the sun. “You see, I’m starting on a journey.” Now she looked full at him--she looked at him as one looks at a friend and she said softly, “I’m heading toward the north star.” Perhaps the man’s hands tightened on the reins. At any rate the mule jerked up his head. The black face froze. For one instant everything stood still. Then the Negro looked up and down the road and to the right and to the left. There were only dust and fields, and here and there a tree. He climbed down from the cart and picked up her bag. He spoke without looking at her. “Jus’ remembered, ma’m, Ah might could drive toward St. Michael. Jus’ _might_ could.” “Oh, thank you! Thank you so much!” The warmth in her tone forced a smile from him. “Reckon Ah could fix up a seat for you in back.” He did fix a seat, shoving aside sacks and cords of wood. It was not an upholstered carriage, but it got her to St. Michaels. She alighted at the market, to arouse less attention. But he insisted on carrying her bag to the pier. “Ma’m,” he said, turning his hat in his hands, “hit seem mighty funny, but Ah--Ah wishes yo’ luck!” And Amelia, eyes shining, answered, “Thank you--Thank you, my friend. The same to you!” The slave leaned lazily against a pile until the gangplank was pulled up, his eyes under the flopping straw hat darting in every direction, watching. Then, as the space of dirty water widened and the boat became a living thing, he stood up, waved his hat in the air and, after wiping the beads of sweat from his forehead, spoke fervently. “Do Jesus!” * * * * * Washington, D. C. had become a tough problem to the Boston Abolitionists. A group was meeting one evening in the _Liberator_ office to map out some course of action.